Torment
by Shakespeare's Lemonade
Summary: "Life doesn't slow down while I try to figure out who I am. Hell, it hasn't for the last forty-two years, why should it start now?" G. thinks about his past and his still unknown father. Oneshot for now.


"Torment"

Rating: T

Genre: angst/hurt/comfort

Summary: "Life doesn't slow down while I try to figure out who I am. Hell, it hasn't for the last forty-two years, why should it start now?" G. thinks about his past and his still unknown father.

A/N: for the Underground Fanfictioners one hour challenge based on the word it in like 45 minutes, so sorry if it's crappy. For now a oneshot.

Torment.

That's a good word for it. I mean, I never wanted to be so dramatic about it, but it fits perfectly. And you know what's funny? They all look at me and think I'm fine. They all think I'm funny. I guess I am funny. It's not like I go out of my way to be depressed. Life doesn't slow down while I try to figure out who I am. Hell, it hasn't for the last forty-two years, why should it start now?

Sam actually tries to get me to talk about it more than people think. He picks me up some mornings, and interrogates me all the way to work. Then we walk through the doors, and it's like a switch is flipped. We're back to bantering partners again.

Guess that's just Sam. He keeps things to himself, even me.

I guess the worst thing is that I know he's out there. My dad, I mean. He still visits Amy's grave. Damn, I wish I could remember her. I wish I had recognized Alina and saved her. I wish I could remember my mother's voice.

Maybe it's a selfish desire to remember my own name. If I could hear her voice, I could hear what she called me. I do remember the big sunglasses and the dark hair. My father must be blonde.

I can't get him out of my head sometimes. I know it must have been serious. He must have loved us because he stayed until I was born at least, and Amy was older than me. I know it doesn't do any good to dwell on it, but what would you do? I think I'm doing okay considering.

And maybe it fosters a lack of commitment. I don't know. I've been with the same team for five years. That's not exactly the same as having a family, but how should I know? It's better than mine.

Hetty says that Sam is my anchor. That's probably true. If not for him, I'm not sure I'd have stayed this long, and that's more about him than about me. Sam's all team oriented, and I think he'd be offended if I left. Something about being best friends and looking out for each other. That makes so much sense to him, but when I hear those words spewing out of his mouth, I just wanna sock him. Not that I would ever do that; he'd kill me. He doesn't know I feel this way. He couldn't. Sam's perceptive, but my whole life has been an act so far, so I don't see any reason to change that now.

When I'm alone in my chair with my little tree on the mantel, I think about who I really am, if I'm anybody. It's a funny problem to have. Not ha-ha funny. Weird. Unusual. Like no one has ever had this problem before, and no one ever will again.

That's something not even Sam can understand. Maybe Hetty gets it, but she doesn't talk to me about this unless she has to. Maybe to give me my space. Maybe to avoid talking about something that pains her too.

The house is dark tonight like every other night. It still echos because there's almost nothing in it. No beds, no couches. Just the things I have to have. I like the house, but I almost liked sleeping on the couch in the office better. Maybe because work is the only place I have an identity. Here I'm just G. Callen, the boy who learned Russian from his foster sister. The boy who didn't stay long enough to remember her 25 years later. It was one of the better times, though.

If I could talk to him, I wouldn't ask him why he left us. I wouldn't ask why he never came to find me. I can figure out all kinds of plausible reasons. My mother was a CIA agent after all.

No, I would ask him who I am. Who he is. Who Clara and Amy were. If I was really named after my grandfather, or of it's just a cruel coincidence. George isn't a bad name, but I can't be certain it's mine. I can't be certain if I'm all Romanian or part something else.

I scuff my feet against the hardwood floor. It's dusty. I haven't cleaned in a while. I can't remember the last time, actually. I never found much use for domestic pursuits like that girl in _Housekeeping_. There's no reason for a transient to throw the dirt and leaves back outside. I think Sam made me read that book. He said I'd identify. Not that I would _want_ to.

I think I can count the people I love on one hand. Sam, Hetty, and my father. There are others I have strong feelings for like Kensi, Deeks, Eric, Nell, Nate, even Abby and Gibbs. Maybe that's love too, but I wouldn't know. Of course, I could add my mother, Amy, and Alina, but they're all dead. They don't count.

Sam would probably Gibbs-slap me for thinking like this, but he doesn't have to know. He never has to. It's not like it's going to change anything. I'll still be the same old G. for years to come.

My phone rings. What the hell?

It's an unknown number, but I answer it anyway. "Callen."

The voice on the other end is distinctly Romanian, and I think I've heard it before. "_George_ Callen?"


End file.
